


I Walk A Path Both Old And New

by angededesespoir



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Drug Use, Fire mention, Gen, Genocide, Grieving, Healing, Introspection, Mink Week, Murder, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mink appreciation week, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angededesespoir/pseuds/angededesespoir
Summary: [Oldfic originally published on September 19, 2014, for Mink Appreciation Week- Day 1:  Family.]Mink reflects on family, his past, all that he lost, and things he still struggles with.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _A few things to note:_  
>  \- As stated in the summary, this is an oldfic. It was originally posted on [Tumblr](http://angededesespoir.tumblr.com/post/97904391620/mink-appreciation-week-day-1-91914-family).  
> \- I wrote this fic. after about 4 years of not writing any fanfiction.  
> \- I unfortunately know next to nothing about Native American Cultures. Sorry for any inaccuracies or anything like that.  
> \- I disappeared from the fandom for awhile & I've forgotten a lot of stuff, so I can't remember if anything was canonically established about Mink's family.

_It’s early morning when I set to work. The night birds are still out and restless._

_I should not be awake._ But it’s the same as usual.

My mind will not stop, and the best way to cage my mind is to set my hands in motion. Make a plan, then follow through.

_It’s what my father would tell me, with stone-cold face and piercing eyes. 'Sitting idle is just wasting the energy your ancestors blessed you with. Don’t let their souls go to waste. Work with them. Let them guide you. Then you’ll both be free.’_

The longer I sit, the louder they become. I can hear their screams in the crackling of wood and flame.

I’m half tempted to put out the fire.

I grab the pipe instead.

The smoke rises as I rest it on the table. _If I try hard enough, I can see my grandfather’s face form, hear the echo of the voice that spoke of gods & scents & taught me pride and respect and how to form the thoughts of prayer._

I bow my head, but I don’t feel as I once did. Or maybe I do.

I’m lost. And confused. Everything is fading, yet painfully clear.

The breeze wafts through cracks. _A reminder that nothing made by my hands can be perfect. I always fall short somewhere._

The breeze rustles my hair, and all at once I am reminded.

_I smell the scent of my mother- so sweet, so different from my own, so full of life- and I taste the freedom of my name rolling off her tongue_

_and then I feel the chains grow tighter as I hear her dying gasps and the illusion of happiness is once again pierced._

I stop the shudder that is curling up my spine & place the tools on the table, next to the supplies.

_I remember the order that my little sister would place them in. She would grow so mad if someone put them out of place._

_She liked structure, she liked routine. She liked for everything to be perfect._

_And then it all unraveled in sickness. And death paused those hands from reaching out._

_She was perfect enough for the shortcut to the gods._

_She went to another world of order, leaving only chaos and destruction behind_

_for me._

I set to work.

_As a boy, I gathered the herbs that my mother would make into food for the flesh and my grandfather- food for the soul.  
I remember walking by the graves- the whispers haunted me. _

_A constant reminder._

_There is no life on this path. Only death._

_The flower plucked loses all life._

My fingers tremble on the beads. _Fragile._

_They’re so fragile. Yet strong._

I could have snapped his neck. _I still could._

_It would fix nothing. It would not breathe life. It would not erase the past._

_It would not free our souls._

I watch with half-empty eyes as I trace the delicate feathers. 

_I see the day I saw him. A body that was empty._

_I could put a chip in, but it would not make him whole._

_He was like me, but his scent did not match my own._

_I’d call him ‘Tori’- Bird._

_He could not replace my brother. But he could at least stay by my side._

I weave. _My grandmother taught me the skill_

_to catch nightmares and free dreams._

_I never could get the pattern just right._

_I can hear her still, chiding away, as she undid my work_

_and made me start on a new path._

_(Never once realizing that for me, it would always meet with the same end.)_

There’s a burning in my throat, a sting in my eyes.

A bead rolls to the floor, and stays there.

My eyes remain unfocused, _but my ears are finally unblocked._

_My body moves on its own accord._

_There is no stopping, no turning back._

_I must answer their call…..at long last._

_——-_

_I’m free._

I test the words on my tongue. _"I’m Free.“_

_They feel so right parting these lips._

_I have emptied myself of everything, and in doing so I have not forgotten the past or my people, but I have let them go._

_I have set them free._

_I have set us free._

_I’m on a new path_

_that_

_I walk as the last of my people._

_…..But I am not alone._

_I am surrounded by family- both old & new._

_It’s time to welcome them,_

_so they can be free, too._


End file.
